


Timing Is Everything

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: ‘Do you actually like this band?’





	Timing Is Everything

‘Do you actually like this band?’ 

Aziraphale doesn’t think there’s anything very odd in the question. It occurs to him as it has a thousand times before only this time he asks it aloud. He doesn’t anticipate it making Crowley’s hands fall away from the wheel, the Bentley’s engine dying before it even starts. True to the narrative rules of the universe, however, or perhaps the car’s own innate bloody-minded-ness, the music continues. 

‘What?’

Crowley sounds like he’s been gargling nails or perhaps screaming for several hours which seems unlikely since he’s just come around in the middle of a lovely sunny afternoon to pick Aziraphale up for tea. Aziraphale swallows nervously, shifting his seat slightly to try and see his face. But Crowley shifts at the same moment and they’re left in much the same positions as before and all Aziraphale can see is a sharp jaw and the earpiece of a pair of expensive sunglasses. 

‘I -- just wondered if you like this band.’ The question sounds even more inane the second time and Aziraphale wonders what about it has brought Crowley to this screeching halt. Because he _has_ halted, all the tense energy that normally keeps him twitching, fidgeting, tapping a foot, twiddling his fingers, fussing with the folds of his shirt is gone as if it has been switched off and Crowley is still. 

Crowley nods, slowly, once, then twice, then it’s as if he can’t stop himself. He just keeps nodding even as he presses the knuckles of one hand against his mouth, then his other hand over that.

‘Oh -- oh, my -- Crowley, I didn’t -- my dear boy, I’m -- I’m so sorry, I didn’t--’ Aziraphale fumbles in his pockets for the handkerchief he always keeps and never uses. It’s in the last pocket he checks and he holds it out but Crowley either doesn’t or refuses to see it and stays as he is, hands pressed over his mouth, tears sliding slowly down his cheeks, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. 

Aziraphale waits a moment, then another, but Crowley’s collar is starting to show water spots and this is just _ridiculous_ so he leans forward carefully, very slowly, and slips Crowley’s sunglasses off his nose, dropping them on the dash, and pats the soft cotton against his cheek. Demon tears, contrary to popular belief, aren’t ink or blood or acid or smoke; they’re the normal tears of a human body, if, perhaps, slightly hotter than most.

Aziraphale taps Crowley’s chin with his free hand as a cue for him to turn his head so Aziraphale can mop up the other side. Crowley takes the handkerchief without touching Aziraphale’s fingers and keeps staring straight ahead. 

Aziraphale sinks back into his seat, feeling oddly reprimanded although he couldn’t have said why. ‘I’m sorry,’ he offers again, no less sincere for not knowing exactly what he’s sorry for. ‘I didn’t mean to -- say the wrong thing.’

Crowley tries to snort but it turns into a hiccup half-way through. ‘You never do.’ He buries his face in the handkerchief for a minute. 

‘What did I say?’ Aziraphale ventures after a moment. 

Crowley scrubs the fabric over his face and blows out a long breath, then drops his forehead against the steering wheel. ‘Nothing.’

‘Crowley!’

‘No, honestly, you -- it’s just -- me. Being -- me. Forget it. Thank you,’ Crowley adds, brushing a fingertip over the handkerchief and holding it out, clean, dry, and neatly folded. 

‘After all we’ve been through,’ Aziraphale says, clasping his hands tightly in his lap, ‘I really would have thought you wouldn’t start lying to me _now.’_

Crowley mutters something under his breath and throws himself back in his seat, looking over at Aziraphale for the first time since they’d gotten in the car. ‘Guilt? Really? Fine. Fine, _what_ ever. It’s just --’ He throws up a hand and lets it land with a thump on the steering wheel. ‘You’ve never asked me that before. Not once.’

‘About the music?’

Crowley nods. ‘You’ve asked who the band was, if I’d ever seen them. You’ve never asked if I _liked_ them.’ 

Aziraphale blinks: he’d thought about it so many times that it seems impossible that he hadn’t _ever--_ But Crowley’s memory is almost frighteningly exact, even for an infernal being. ‘I don’t quite--’

‘It just struck me,’ Crowley goes on as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken, ‘that we’ve never asked each other that. If we like... things. You’ve never asked me how I like my tea. Or if I like my plants. I don’t know if you like red wine or if you just drink it because I do and you’ve got used to it. Or do you even _like--’_

Aziraphael lets out the breath he had been holding. As simple as this, then. ‘Crowley.’ He reaches across the seat and wipes a salt stain from the skin of Crowley’s temple. ‘Of course I do. I like all those things.’ 

Crowley had gone completely still when Aziraphale’s thumb brushed his skin and his attempt at casual now is almost cartoonish. He sniffs and pulls himself straight in his seat, then slumps again, drumming his fingers around the curve of the steering wheel. ‘Well. Good. I’d hate to think I’d been forcing the wrong wine on you for--’

‘And you. Of course. Of _course_ you. Did you think I didn’t?’ That’s an awful thought. Aziraphale had always thought they understood each other so well, without the need to explain in so many words but--

Crowley swallows. ‘I. Didn’t think...you didn’t, no. But. I’ve been wrong before.’ 

Aziraphale slides his hand under the softness of Crowley’s chin and turns his face. ‘Not about me, you haven’t.’ He holds Crowley’s gaze until Crowley swallows again and nods, then leans forward and brushes their lips together. ‘But I’m afraid,’ he goes on, breathing the words against Crowley’s mouth, ‘if we don’t start right now, we’ll be late for tea and Anathema will be dreadfully upset with us.’ 


End file.
